Major Kent came down to breakfast next morning in a frock coat and a
white waistcoat. His silk hat, carefully brushed and glossy, lay on
the hall table with a pair of pale grey kid gloves beside it. Meldon,
who was a little late for breakfast, paused in the hall and looked at
the hat. Entering the dining-room he took a long stare at his friend.
"Major," he said, "you're a wonderful man. I had forgotten how
wonderful you are. Now that I am getting to know you again I am struck
dumb with absolute amazement."
The Major was uneasily conscious that his attire was in strong contrast
to Meldon's shabby jacket and wrinkled trousers.
"I don't suppose," said Meldon, "that there's another man in the whole
world who could go on dressing himself up like that Sunday after Sunday
in a place like Ballymoy. However, the habit will turn out beneficial
for once. I expect you'll produce an excellent effect on Miss King."
"I was thinking over that plan of yours last night," said the Major,
"and--"
"I was under the impression that I distinctly told you not to think.
There's not the slightest necessity for you to exert yourself in that
way; and besides, so far as I know, you invariably think wrong.
However, if you really have thought, you'd better get the result off
your chest at once."
"It occurred to me--" said the Major.
"That's not quite the same thing as thinking. I don't blame you so
much, now that I know that the thing, whatever it is, merely occurred
to you. No man can be held responsible for the things that occur to
him. There was one of the ancient Egyptian hermits who made a very
sensible remark on that subject. You'll find it in Migne's 'Patrologia
Latina,' in the volume which contains the 'Verba Seniorum.' I can't
quote the exact words at the moment, but they are to this effect: 'If
you can't stop the wind from blowing, neither can you prevent evil
thoughts from entering your mind.' I daresay the thing that occurred
to you wasn't actually evil in the sense which the hermit meant, but it
is pretty sure to have been foolish; and that, for all practical
purposes, is the same thing. By the way, this is excellent bacon;
quite the best I've tasted for a long time. Does Doyle supply it?"
"No; I get it down from Dublin. But about that plan of yours. It
occurs to me that Miss King is not likely to be in church."
"Of course she'll be in church. Why shouldn't she?"
"Well, if she's a disciple of that man you were speaking about last
night, she can hardly be what's generally called a Christian, can she?"
"Of course not. But she'll come to church just the same."
"But surely-- Not if she doesn't believe in Christianity?"
"My dear Major! your ideas in some respects are extraordinarily
primitive. The less anybody likes Christianity for himself, the more
sure he is that it's an excellent religion for other people. That's
the reason you find statesmen all over the world supporting whatever
Church is uppermost at the moment in the particular country they happen
to be dealing with. Look at the history of Ireland, for instance. For
a century and a half British statesmen steadily fatted up our church.
Now they are dropping any plums that they can spare--Congested
Districts Boards and such things--into the mouths of the Roman Catholic
bishops. Do you suppose they care a pin for either? Not they. All
they want is to strengthen up some form of religion which will keep the
people quiet. They think that Christianity is an excellent thing for
everybody they have to govern, though they take jolly good care not to
act on it themselves. In just the same way you'll see that Miss King
will be in church to-day. As a follower of Nietzsche she doesn't
herself accept the ethics of Christianity, but she'll consider it her
duty to encourage everybody else to accept them, and the only practical
way she has of doing that is to attend church regularly."
"You're preaching to-day, aren't you, J. J.?"
"Yes, I am. I promised the poor old rector that I would do all I could
to help him while I'm here. Why do you ask?"
"I was wondering," said the Major, "if you were going to give us that
doctrine out of the pulpit."
"Well, I'm not. You ought to know, Major, that my sermons are always
strictly practical, and deal entirely with matters of pressing local
importance: the ordinary difficulties and dangers of the people I'm
preaching to. There won't be any statesmen in church to-day, so
there'd be no point in my explaining that theory. If I'm ever asked to
preach before the House of Commons I shall give it to them."
This account of Meldon's theory of sermons made the Major a little
nervous. He asked his next question anxiously.
"Are you going to be personal, J. J.? I hope not."
"I can't preach the whole sermon to you beforehand, Major; but I don't
mind telling you that it will deal with the vice of squabbling which I
find rampant in small communities. I shan't, of course, mention you
and Simpkins; or, for the matter of that, Doyle and O'Donoghue, though
it wouldn't matter much if I did mention them. Being Roman Catholics,
they won't be there to object."
"The sermon will be personal, then?"
"No, it won't. I shan't even allude to the subject of fishing. I
shall preach in such a way as to get at everybody who has ever
quarrelled with anybody else. After listening to what I say, you will
be much more inclined to take Simpkins out in the _Spindrift_."
Meldon's sermon was all that he boasted. He chose as his text a verse
out of the Book of Proverbs which compares any one who meddles
unnecessarily with strife to a man who takes a dog by the ears. He
spoke feelingly, from what appeared to be the recollection of
unpleasant experience, of the way in which spirited dogs behave when
any one takes them forcibly by the ears. He explained in a short
parenthesis the best way of dealing with dog-fights. He also described
in simple language the consequences which result from being
bitten--consequences which range from hydrophobia and tetanus down to
simple blood-poisoning. Then he passed on to show that human bites,
inflicted, so he said, oftener with the tongue than with the teeth,
were far more dangerous than those of dogs. The congregation became
greatly interested at this point, and allowed themselves to be swept
forward by a violent sophism which carried the preacher far beyond the
original statement of Solomon. All quarrelling, not merely interfering
with existing quarrels of long standing, was denounced in forcible
language. Major Kent felt uncomfortable; then, as the preacher worked
himself up, resentful. Finally, he was cowed. Meldon seized the
psychological moment and closed his discourse with a quotation from the
poetry of Dr. Watts. He made a remarkably apposite citation of the
well-known lines which exonerate dogs, bears, and lions from any blame
when they bark, bite, growl, or fight, and emphasised the entirely
different position of the human race.
Major Kent, bruised by the vigour of his friend's eloquence, accosted
Miss King in the church porch after service; apologised for not having
formally called on her; and invited her to go yachting with him next
day in the _Spindrift_. Miss King accepted the invitation, and then,
worked up perhaps to an unusual pitch of friendliness by the sermon,
asked the Major to go back to Ballymoy House with her for luncheon.
Meldon appeared from the door of the vestry room and urged the Major to
accept the invitation.
"As I expected," he said, "Simpkins wasn't in church.--How do you do,
Miss King? I'm glad you and the Major have made friends. You're sure
to like each other.--So I shall have to go round to his house and look
him up. I daresay he'll give me a bite to eat; and if he doesn't,
Doyle will. You will of course accept"--he appeared to be addressing
Major Kent--"Miss King's invitation. I'll call round for you at about
four. I daresay Miss King will give us both a cup of tea. You drive
her home in your trap, Major. I can walk down to Simpkins' house quite
easily."
Meldon, carrying his hat in one hand, strode off in the direction of
Mr. Simpkins' house. Miss King looked at Major Kent.
"You see it's all settled for you," she said. "You'll have to come
back with me."
"I suppose I had better," said the Major. Then after a pause he added,
"Of course I'm delighted to, and it's very kind of you to ask me."
Simpkins was stretched in a hammock chair reading a novel when Meldon
found him. He received a severe lecture for not attending church,
which seemed to surprise him a good deal, especially as his absence was
attributed by Meldon to shame and a consciousness of guilt, feelings
from which Simpkins had never in his life suffered. Then--and this
seemed to astonish him still more--he was warmly invited to go for a
day's yachting in the _Spindrift_.
"I didn't hear," he said doubtfully, "that Major Kent was going away."
"He isn't," said Meldon. "Don't I tell you he's giving a picnic in his
yacht?"
"Are you sure he wants me?"
"Certain. He sent you an invitation, which is a plain proof that he
wants you. He would have delivered it himself, only that Miss King
caught him after church and carried him off to luncheon. But I have
one of his cards with me, and if you insist on everything being done in
the most accurate and correct possible manner, I'll leave it on the
umbrella stand in your hall as I go out."
Meldon had provided himself with a few of the Major's visiting cards
before leaving Portsmouth Lodge in the morning. He was a man who
prided himself on leaving nothing to chance. Since it was just
possible that the cards might turn out to be useful, he had put a few
in his pocket.
"In fact," he went on, "to prevent any possible mistake or
misunderstanding I may as well hand it over to you at once." He
produced a card, slightly crumpled and a good deal soiled, from his
waistcoat pocket, and laid it on Simpkins' knee. Simpkins looked at it
doubtfully, took it up in his hand, and examined both sides of it.
Then he spoke slowly.
"I think you know," he said; "in fact, I've told you myself, that the
Major and I aren't on very good terms. I was obliged to speak to him
rather strongly about the way he used to fish in a part of the river--"
"I know all about that; you needn't go into it again. It's entirely
over and done with. An era of peace is beginning to dawn. After
listening to my sermon this morning--it's a great pity for your own
sake that you weren't in church, Simpkins--the Major finds himself in a
position to forget the past and to start fresh. His attitude now--very
largely owing to my sermon--is that of the dove which came to the ark
with an olive leaf plucked off in its mouth."
Simpkins was not apparently prepared to accept the olive leaf. He
asked Meldon whether that dove was the text of his sermon.
"No, it wasn't. I might have alluded to it, but I didn't. I might
have explained, if I'd thought of it at the time--in fact, I will
explain to you now. The dove is of all birds the most peaceful and the
least inclined to quarrel with other birds. You'd know that by the
soothing way it coos, and also by the colour of its breast. Tennyson,
the poet, notes the fact that the peculiar bluey shade of its feathers
arouses feelings of affection in people who weren't thinking of
anything of the sort before they saw it. I'm not prepared to assert
that positively myself, but I shouldn't wonder if there was something
in the idea. Then the olive branch is the regular, recognised symbol
of peace. The reason of that is that oil is got out of olives, and oil
is one of the most soothing things there is. Of course, you get oil
from other sources too--from whales, for instance; but the olive branch
is chosen as a symbol because it's such a much more convenient thing to
carry about than a whale is. No explorer, when meeting a savage tribe
with which he doesn't want to fight, could possibly wave a whale, even
if he had one with him--and he wouldn't be likely to, unless he was
exploring the polar regions--whereas he can wave an olive branch, and
always does. That's the reason the olive branch and not the whale is
chosen as the symbol of peace. You'll be able to realise now how
extraordinarily peaceable the Major is when I compare him to a dove
with an olive leaf in his mouth."
"If," said Simpkins, who had only partially followed the reasoning
about the dove and the olive--"if the Major apologises for the way he
spoke, I'm quite ready--"
"He doesn't actually apologise," said Meldon. "You can hardly expect
that of him. I think myself he's going as far as can reasonably be
expected of him when he asks you out for a day's yachting. Very few
men would do as much; and I may say to you, Simpkins, that if you'd
been in church to-day and heard my sermon, you wouldn't be inclined now
to stand out for an apology. You would, in fact, most likely be
looking out for an olive leaf and a dove of your own to carry to the
Major."
"But he was entirely in the wrong about the fishing. I admitted all
along that he was perfectly entitled to fish below the bridge, but he
insisted---"
"Quite so," said Meldon. "That's my exact point. Any fool can
apologise when he's been in the right. That gives him such a
comfortable sense of superiority that he doesn't a bit mind grovelling
before the other fellow. What is totally impossible is to apologise
when you're in the wrong. You must be able to realise that."
"I'm not at all sure," said Simpkins, "that I ought to accept the
invitation. Major Kent's hostility to me has been most marked.
Everybody about the place has noticed it."
"Unless you're perfectly sure that you ought not to accept the
invitation," said Meldon, "I think you'd better give yourself the
benefit of the doubt. It will be a most enjoyable expedition. Miss
King is coming. By the way, I hope you haven't quarrelled with Miss
King in any way?"
"No, I haven't. Why should I?"
"I'm glad to hear it, I was afraid perhaps you and she might have
fallen out over something. But if you haven't, why didn't you go near
her for the last two days?"
"I was there on Thursday afternoon. I can't with any decency call on
her every day in the week."
"Oh yes, you can; and, if you mean to marry her, you ought to. Believe
me, there's nothing estranges a woman's affection so rapidly as that
kind of studied neglect. She can't call on you, you know, without
putting herself in a wholly false position."
"I haven't quite made up my mind about marrying her."
"Oh, well, the day in the _Spindrift_ will do that for you. There's
something very exhilarating, Simpkins, about a fresh sea breeze. It
simply sweeps away all hesitation, and renders you capable of marrying
almost any one. That's the reason why sailors are famous for having a
wife in every port they call at, and why nobody blames them for it.
Exposed, as they necessarily are, to the sea air at its purest, they
simply can't help themselves. They become exaggeratedly uxorious
without in the least meaning to."
"Besides," said Simpkins, "I've no reason to suppose that Miss King
would marry me."
"Have you any reason to suppose she won't?"
"No. I've only seen her once, you know."
"Then I think it extremely likely that she will. Everybody knows that
most people do things not so much because they want to as because they
haven't any reason for refusing. Take the average party, for
instance--tea party, tennis party, garden party, or dinner party. How
many men go to parties because they want to? Not one in a hundred.
The other ninety-nine go simply because there's no available reason for
not going. It's just the same with marrying. Unless you give Miss
King some good reason for refusing you, she'll marry you as soon as
ever you ask her. And if I were you I'd ask her to-morrow. We'll land
on an island for luncheon. The Major and I will slip off by ourselves
and give you your opportunity."
"I'm not sure--"
"Come now, Simpkins, have you anything against the girl? Has anybody
been circulating stories about her of any sort? I know this is a
gossipy sort of place, and--"
"Oh no; it's simply that I don't know her."
"If that's all," said Meldon, "a day in the _Spindrift_ will set it
right. You'll be surprised how intimate you become with a person when
you're sitting for hours crammed up against him or her in the cockpit
of a five-ton yacht. By the time you've disentangled her twice from
the mainsheet, with the Major swearing all the time, and been obliged
to haul her up to windward whenever the boat goes about and she gets
left with her head down on the lee side, you get to feel as if you'd
known her intimately for years. By the way, what time do you lunch?"
"Half-past one," said Simpkins. "Will you--"
"Thanks," said Meldon; "I will, if you're quite sure there's enough for
two. I'm due at Miss King's at four. The Major's there. Miss King
asked him to luncheon with her. But you needn't mind. He hasn't the
least notion of marrying her or anybody else. You can come with me in
the afternoon if you like. In fact, I think it would be a very good
plan if you did. I'll clear the Major out of the way at once, and then
you can have a good innings. If you play your cards properly to-day,
you'll certainly be in a position to propose to her to-morrow."
At four o'clock Meldon led the rather embarrassed Simpkins up to
Ballymoy House. Miss King and Major Kent were sitting together on the
lawn, and were apparently getting on very well indeed. The greeting
between Mr. Simpkins and the Major was constrained and cold. Miss King
seemed to feel that the situation demanded tact. She suggested
ordering tea at once, and having it out of doors.
"Not for us, thanks," said Meldon. "The Major and I must be off at
once. We haven't a moment to delay."
Major Kent looked surprised, and seemed inclined to ask questions. He
resented the arrival of Simpkins, but he did not want to leave Miss
King so soon.
"I said this morning," said Meldon, "that we'd stop for tea; but since
then I find that I'm tied--in fact, we're both tied--to a most
important engagement, and must absolutely run if we are to be in time.
Come along, Major." He seized him by the arm as he spoke. "Good-bye,
Miss King. Good-bye, Simpkins. We'll see you both at Portsmouth Lodge
at ten to-morrow morning."
"I suppose, J. J.," said the Major, when Meldon, reaching the highroad,
slackened his pace--"I suppose that I'm being hustled about like this
so that Simpkins can have Miss King all to himself, but--"
"Exactly," said Meldon. "I may tell you, Major, that I now look upon
Simpkins as practically a dead man. I don't see how he can possibly
escape."
"What I was going to say," said the Major, "is that I think you are
mistaken about Miss King. She doesn't seem to me the least like a
criminal."
"Of course not. She wouldn't be the successful murderess she is if she
hadn't the manners and appearance of a very gentle and gracious lady.
That's what gives her the pull she has when it comes to the verdict of
a jury. You ought to know, Major, that the old Bill Sykes sort of
criminal, the brutalised-looking man with a huge jaw and a low
forehead, is quite out of date now. No one gets himself up in that
style who means to go in for serious crime. In a book published the
other day there was a composite photograph made up of the faces of
fifty or sixty criminals of the most extreme kind. I assure you that
the net result was an uncommonly good-looking man. That shows you the
truth of what I'm saying."
"In any case, J. J., setting aside her personal appearance and manner--"
"Your impression of her personal appearance. I wasn't taken in by it."
"She isn't the sort of woman you said she was. She'd never heard of
that philosopher of yours."
"Do you mean to say that she denied ever having heard the name of
Nietzsche?"
"Not exactly. The fact is that I couldn't recollect his name, but I
gave her a sketch of his doctrines--"
"I don't expect she recognised your sketch. You were probably grossly
inaccurate."
"I gave her almost word for word what you said last night about murder
being a very virtuous thing and bullying being the highest form of
morality."
"Even so I don't expect she recognised it. You see I had to paraphrase
the whole thing to bring it down to the level of your understanding.
If you'd been in a position to quote a phrase or two, like Herren
Morale, for instance, she'd have recognised the system at once, even
without the name of Nietzsche."
"I couldn't do that, of course."
"Now I come to think of it, I don't suppose she'd have owned up to
Nietzsche in any case. She'd have been bound to deny any knowledge of
the system. You see she doesn't know that I've told you who she really
is. She probably distrusts you as a magistrate. After the brutal way
in which Sir Gilbert Hawkesby summed up against her, she would
naturally be a bit shy of any one occupying any sort of judicial
position. Of course if she knew that you were keenly interested in the
death of Simpkins it would have been different. She'd have spoken
quite openly to you then."
"I don't believe she'll kill Simpkins."
"She will if she marries him. Not that Simpkins is a particularly
objectionable man in my opinion. I rather like him myself. But Miss
King lives for her art, and once Simpkins proposes to her his fate is
sealed."
"She did mention her art once or twice," said the Major. "Now that you
remind me of it, I distinctly recollect her saying that it was the
great thing in her life."
"There you are then. Perhaps now you'll believe me for the future, and
not be starting miserable, sceptical objections to every word I say.
What did you say when she talked to you about her art? Did you
cross-question her about what it was?"
"No, I didn't. I wasn't thinking of your absurd theories when I was
talking to her. I thought she meant painting, or something of that
sort. I felt sorry for her, J. J. She seems to me to have a very
lonely kind of life."
"Of course she does--in the intervals."
"What?"
"There are intervals, of course. Miss King isn't the sort of woman to
form an intimacy with another man until she is really a widow. It's
quite natural that she should feel lonely just now, for instance. The
mere absence of the excitement she's been accustomed to for so long
would have a depressing effect on her."